


Hanging On To The Fiddle

by Cahaya (Tarlaith)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, a meeting, getting shot/injury, magical healing powers, town on fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8512294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlaith/pseuds/Cahaya
Summary: An angel and a demon meet a bounty hunter and his favourite outlaw.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Big "thank you" to Trinculo for beta-ing! (And for loving this work enough to make me finish it.) :D
> 
> Enjoy!

"Maybe you should stop digging up what your beloved _ineffable_ worked so hard to bury," said a voice behind Aziraphale, and even though he didn't recognize it outright, he knew the tone.

"Crawly."

"Crowley," the voice corrected.

Aziraphale looked up from where he was perched on the gentle slope of the hill, knee-deep in mud, and stopped turning the heavy, vaguely avian skull in his hands. The sky was considerably darker than the last time he had given the world a scrap of attention and for a fleeting moment he wasn't sure if he'd been sitting here for a few hours or a few _days_. Then the darkness surrounding the bushes seemed to become tangible, clinging to the figure that stepped into the circle of his oil lamp.

It was a man – or at least a man-shaped being – dressed sharply in an expensive black coat and blood-red jacket and trousers beneath it. Not exactly the most inconspicuous outfit in the frontier, but it was playing to lore. His feet were bare, covered in hard, olive-brown scales with intricate snakeskin patterns, that shifted as he moved – or maybe that was just a trick of the light.

The Serpent cocked his head. "What happened here?"

"Mud-slide," said Aziraphale. He got up and passed him the skull, because he needed both hands to gather up the heavy shovel. "Reveals all kinds of things."

Crowley clicked his tongue. "A _pteranodon_? They haven't been around since before the Flood."

"Yes." Aziraphale leant the shovel against the closest tree and rolled his shoulders. "Proud creatures. Majestic. Good hunters. That name hasn't been invented yet."

"Fish-eaters. Not enough in His image to dominate this world," said Crowley. "You should leave the dead down where they belong. But," he slipped the skull into his pocket, "they are digging out reptiles in England, I hear. Can't be long until palaeontologists start disproving the Book yet again."

"About time." Aziraphale said, cringing, and Crowley laughed, a low, rumbling sound interspersed with the occasional hiss.

"You should come back with me. Weather's better, over there, too. The sun doesn't suit you."

That was true. Aziraphale had always been on the creamy side of Caucasian complexion, blond and blue-eyed, guilty of playing to the humans' expectations as much as Crowley himself. At first he'd avoided the sun as much as he could and gone to bed red like a lobster every day, but out on the frontier, avoiding a tan – and therefore looking browned like a _farmer_ – was a true impossibility. Angels were supposed to be immune to vanity, but Aziraphale missed his aristocratic paleness. Particularly because he knew it would be out of style in about a hundred and fifty years.

"Honestly, I thought you had gone back already," Crowley continued thoughtfully. "Peace restored, and all that."

"Peace is relative," Aziraphale said, scooped up his lamp and started down the hill. "The people here need me."

"The Indians are done for no matter what," Crowley said softly, closer than Aziraphale expected, and he nearly stumbled on the slippery soil. Without shoes, the Serpent's steps were astonishingly soundless. If he was even touching the ground at all.

Irritated by his edginess, Aziraphale turned. "The _town_ , Crawly."

"You mean the one that's burning like dry reed down there?"

 

-

 

Aziraphale and Crowley breezed into Stagridge like the very devil was on their heels, which was absolutely impossible since the Adversary was still safely tucked away behind the walls of his fortress down in Hell, probably planning Armageddon. In gory detail. In _Kodachrome_.

They still arrived much earlier than any human would ever have been able to, mostly thanks to their most inhuman body-parts: wings. Thankfully, the feather's rustling blend in seamlessly with the crackling of the fire. Crowley took care to stay half a step behind Aziraphale, unobtrusive. He wasn't a local, after all, and didn't want to be asked to help.

The town was almost burned down anyway, most of the houses mere skeletons of black pillars and beams and ashes. The inn had borne most of the brunt, now lacking the door, front porch and most of it's walls, not to mention the upper story that had been there before.

At least the people were fine, working together in times of crisis. Men were carrying buckets, women cradled crying children. In between the gathering crowd, a shadow moved, taller than all of them. He strutted over to where the injured had been dumped, bending over each in turn.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a concerned look and walked over.

Death looked up from his latest victim. Or rather – the hood moved up, and beneath it two tiny points like blue candle flames glowed. _HELLO THERE._

The icy gaze made Crowley shiver, which he quickly hid beneath a toothy smile. "You missed one." He pointed to another limp body, draped over the back of a panting horse.

Death shrugged. _NOT DEAD YET._

"Well, he will be," said Crowley, scrunching up his nose. "At least from the way he smells. Can't be long now."

_I'M ON A TIGHT SCHEDULE. ALWAYS BUSY. I'LL COME BACK._

With that, he left – or rather, dissolved into smoke, as one of the humans walked right through him. It was a thin, hawkish looking man with a beard a few days too long and a confederate rifle slung over his shoulder. His reedy voice cut through the noise, used to giving orders. "What do you mean, the doctor is gone? He can't be gone, not right now!"

"I'm real sorry, sir," said the owner of the inn – burly, with a red beard and huge, work-hardened hands. "He tried to save some fella in there, was sleepin'. Now, no one will be sleepin' here again for a while."

"I need to see the doctor, immediately," the man insisted. "My friend is injured."

"As are most people here."

"He has been _shot_! Now, do you know who I am? I am Goodnight Robicheaux, the one and only, and you will tell me _right now_ where the doctor is!"

The owner of the inn raised his brows, but didn't comment. He merely pointed to one of the people lying on the street, away from the fire. It was the guy Death had been ogling before Crowley arrived. Someone had stuffed a saddle beneath his head, not that it would help him much. Half his face was burned away, and his vest and trousers were not only dirty with ashes, but also with blood and what might be pus.

Crowley cringed inwardly, absurdly happy that it was dark despite his excellent night vision. The American doctors had yet to be convinced of the benefits of cleanliness on the job – out here, stains on the jacket were worn like a _badge_ more times than not. In the daylight, the sight would have been horrifying.

And the man was already dead.

Apparently 'Goodnight Robicheaux' came to the same conclusion, because his eyes widened. "No!" he ran over and knelt down beside the doctor, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, to no avail. "No, no, _dammit_!"

He let go of the dead man, jumped to his feet and came back. "Someone here must know how to treat an infection. His apprentice, a nurse, _someone_?!"

The owner of the inn shook his head. "Only doctor around, sir. We can't even treat our own wounded."

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, who was watching the townspeople. "I've heard that name before, I'm just not sure where. Goodnight Robicheaux... sounds Sou–," his eyes lit up. "Oh, yeah. Confederate sharpshooter, of course! The _Angel of Death_!"

Aziraphale flinched and quickly looked around. "Shout a bit louder, why don't you?"

"I wonder what their story is," said Crowley, ignoring him, and approached Robicheaux, who was gently talking to the unconscious man on the horse.

"I'm gonna find someone who can treat that, I promise. I _promise_ , Billy. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just please, hang on a bit longer."

"He can't hear you," Crowley greeted.

Robicheaux yelped, startled – and then he gasped, hands flying to his rifle. "Yellow e-eyes! Stay away from us!" he yelled and cocked the gun with shaking fingers. "Stay away, _demon_."

Before Crowley got any chance to voice his surprise at being recognized, Aziraphale stepped past him, right into the line of fire. Which was pretty badass, considering a gunshot could discorporate them easily – which Crowley knew from personal experience: it had happened to him twice already, which was two times too many. "I'm sorry, we merely wish to offer our help," the Angel said, voice pitched low and calm, and Robicheaux relaxed almost immediately, albeit reluctantly.

Crowley decided to let Aziraphale do the talking, lest this turn into Shot Dead Incident Number Three. Also, he preferred to avoid helping people with good intentions, since it could get him into the hands of demons with bad intentions.

 

-

 

The Angel's cabin was one of the few that hadn't burnt down, mostly because it stood on the other side of a small creek the fire couldn't cross. It was a small affair, made of wood that had tanned in the sunlight just like a human. Sand and twigs littered the front porch, with only a narrow clean strip leading to the door. Well, now mud-printed, and Crowley was perfectly sure that the door was the only object of the house Aziraphale regularly used, apart from his beloved armchair. One had to keep up appearances, even if doors – or walls, for that matter – were pretty much inconsequential for their kind.

At least the inside was furnished. Or: pretended to be. Most of the looming shadows were stacks of books. The kitchen area was perfectly in order, as if a woman kept it, but covered in dust no female would ever allow in her domain. Clearly it had never been cooked in. That didn't stop Aziraphale from rushing to the stove.

Goodnight Robicheaux didn't seem to notice much of his surroundings as he carried his injured friend in after him and into the small bedroom in the back. It was more of a cupboard, really, and contained only one tiny, quilt-covered cot. And more books.

Crowley stood in the doorway and watched Goodnight gently lay down the man named Billy, murmuring soothingly under his breath the whole time. Then Aziraphale brushed past him with bandages and a bowl of boiling water that definitely didn't come from the stove. His hands smelled of iodine, and there was a vial of serum of carbolic acid tucked into his pocket.

' _All hail the dawn of modern medicine_ ', Crowley thought, and slipped out of the room.

 

-

 

It was well into the night as Goodnight finally passed out on the kitchen floor, not even bothering to bring in his bedroll or blanket and simply leaning against the wall next to the stove. He looked even more gaunt and worried when asleep, Crowley mused, reading the whole story in the lines on his face and the twitch of his fingers. This man had seen bad, done worse, and had come back to be haunted by it.

Crowley had seen his own share of battles, most of them a lot bloodier, all of them pointless. He would see even more in the near future, when he returned to Europe. People would die at the hands of idealists thinking they fought the good fight, but in the end, they would all go to hell. That was truly depressing about the Great Plan: it was all so unavoidable that it became uninteresting.

Yet, the thought of scouting another battlefield alone made his stomach want to turn itself over, and his feet had carried him here out of their own volition.

He got up and walked to the bedroom. Aziraphale was still sitting by Billy's side, cleaning off the dried, old blood. The cloth in his hand was dripping red, as was the bowl, and Crowley cleaned both with a stray thought.

Aziraphale looked up, smiling softly. "Thank you."

Not really knowing what to do, Crowley came closer. In the lamplight, Billy looked greenish and pale, his face sunken, high cheekbones standing out like on a skeleton. He was sleeping restlessly, shifting at each touch, making sounds of discomfort and pain.

"It's rare to see a Korean this far inland," Crowley said. "The world is getting smaller."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and pulled the quilt up to cover Billy. There was an air of determination around the Angel that Crowley had seen too many times before. Every time Aziraphale decided that not being able to help was not an option. He carefully placed his hand on the Angel's shoulder. "Maybe he won't... you know."

Behind them, Goodnight whimpered in his sleep.

Crowley cocked his head, yellow eyes ablaze in the dark, and Aziraphale brushed away his hand. "Never give up on hope."

 

-

 

Crowley slept in Aziraphale's brand new attic, after refurnishing it to his tastes: a queen-size bed covered with multiple thick, gold-embroidered quilts the Angel would have a fit about if he knew, two pillows and at least three bed-warmers stuffed with coals that still radiated heat the next morning. He snuggled up to one, soaking up the warmth, and tried to figure out what woke him. Serpents were not usually early risers, being cold-blooded and all.

A horse neighed outside, and there was the metallic clank of a bucket crashing to the ground, followed by a curse in French. _Ah._

It was tempting to get back to sleep and maybe stay like that for another month or so, but Crowley rolled out of bed anyway. He found Aziraphale bent over Billy in the bedroom again, talking quietly to him, shoulder's drawn up. The Korean was still unconscious.

Crowley tapped a knuckle to the doorframe to announce his presence. "How's he holding up?"

Aziraphale whipped around, clenching his fists. There were black shadows beneath his eyes that Crowley hadn't seen since they tried not to get into scuffles down South seven years ago, and a streak of white in his usually golden curls. "He has killed fourteen people, on top of every other sin a human is capable of committing. I can't save him, no matter what I do!" the Angel almost-yelled, and it sounded more like defeat than anger. "He already belongs to Hell."

Definitely defeat. Aziraphale's finger trailed down Billy's bandaged chest, over red, fever-burning skin. "Only the touch of a demon could help him."

"I can't to do that," Crowley said stiffly. "If they found out..."

"Yes. I know." Aziraphale stood up curtly – pale, awkwardly lanky, it was moments like this that Crowley remembered that Aziraphale was actually _taller_ than him – and left.

 

-

 

Goodnight was still outside the cabin, feeding the horses. They were tied to a tree now, instead of just running free like they had been last night. The sharpshooter's hands were shaking, his jacket was rumpled and his boots dark and wet. He jerked his head up when he spotted Crowley, hands flying for a pistol that must've been at his waist once, then stood up straighter. "Are you here to take Billy, demon?"

Again, that word. Crowley frowned, but Goodnight squared his shoulders. "Let him live, and you can have my soul."

And he meant it, Crowley could see that. There was no hint of tremor in his voice, but his eyes told a different story. Once, Crowley would have taken this offer without a thought, especially since the human hadn't specified how long Billy had to remain on Earth after the contract had been sealed. Even if he kicked the bucket minutes after, Goodnight wouldn't be here to see it any more.

But _now_ was not _once_.

Crowley sighed. "There's no demon after you."

Goodnight's eyes widened in surprise, then he quickly turned his head away, looking at the horses. "I'm sorry. It's just... your yellow eyes. Not too common around here. I guess I was just upset and... seeing things. Never mind. Whether he... _Billy_ lives or dies, it's probably better if I'm not around, anyway. Getting shot one time for me is enough." He patted the horse, lost in thought. Replaying his own personal hell in his head, where his loved one got hurt because of him and he stood watching, helpless. "I'm nothing but trouble."

"I've lived in a few places," Crowley said, startling Goodnight out of his memories. "And trouble is, in my experience, exactly the kind of situation one needs a friend for."

 

\- 

 

Crowley left Goodnight outside, finishing up with the horses, although the human was actually more staring blindly into the distance and thinking than anything else. Aziraphale was nowhere in sight – probably off to avoid another run-in with Death – but had left the backdoor open. A courtesy for a colleague, perhaps.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, so close he could feel the fever radiating from Billy's body. Even hear his heartbeat, if he listened closely. The man was quite handsome, for a human, even though his beauty was already waning. As was his life.

Crowley touched a hand to Billy's cheek. The skin was smooth and warm beneath his fingertips, and a picture flashed in his mind. A church tower on a hot summer's day. The smell of gunpowder tickled his nose – a whiff of future, or _meaning_.

Then it was gone, maybe-future bled back into present, and Crowley called up his essence to draw the sickness over into his own body. The tight lines on Billy's face eased almost instantly, his laboured breathing fading into the silence of sleep.

Crowley let go once he was sure he had taken the fever with him, and was about to stand up when Billy opened his eyes. They were beautifully dark, clouded from pain, his lashes sticking together from sleep. He was clearly disoriented, but of a mind enough to try and not let it show.

Crowley grinned down at him. "You gave us quite the scare."

The Korean blinked, fighting for consciousness. "Where am I?" His accent tripped over the words.

"Your friend brought you here," Crowley said, and then dropped into Korean, which he had technically never spoken before: "You are very lucky to have someone like him."

He could still feel Billy staring at his back as he left.

 

\- 

 

Aziraphale found Crowley on the roof, much later, as the sun was about to set again, drawing long shadows onto the sand. In the distance, two riders were spurring their horses into a trot, and the townspeople were turning in from a hard day of work. The debris had been cleared away and they would now start to rebuild their town.

"I didn't know I had an actual attic up there. Much less one with such expensive quilts."

Not even the chiding tone could mask the fondness. Crowley could hear the Angel walk over, sure-footed on the slanted roof. He stopped behind him and reached out to touch Crowley's wings. "You are moulting." The contact made Crowley shiver, and a trail of sparks trickled down his spine. Aziraphale drew back with a handful of loose feathers, which dispersed in the wind.

"Times are changing."

The Angel nodded. "We should go back."

Crowley looked up sharply, but there was obvious relief in his yellow eyes. He quickly frowned to hide it. "Are you sure you can handle another war this soon?"

"My dear, I am an avenging angel, after all," Aziraphale reminded him, somewhat indignant.

Crowley laughed, loud and free, for the first time in _years_. "You gave your sword away. But don't worry, I'll be there."


End file.
